


In Deed

by fascinationex



Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [17]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Crack Relationships, Doorwings, Flash Fic, M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fill, fuck or suffer mild inconvenience, it was written as flash fic anyway, prowl learnt his social skills by rote and that's relatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22691932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fascinationex/pseuds/fascinationex
Summary: Well,someonehas to interface with Huffer.
Relationships: Huffer/Prowl
Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311599
Comments: 22
Kudos: 53





	In Deed

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as "flash fic" on my phone during my lunch break and put in the tags to post it after work. Thank you [crimsonseekers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonseekers) for this prompt.

"I'm not saying it won't work... But I am saying that _you_ can be the one to tell Huffer," Ratchet said. 

Prowl watched him in some confusion. It seemed like a medical matter. Certainly it was a morale issue, but... 

"I am able," he said slowly. 

"Sure. You do that." Ratchet snorted through his vents, a sound that was novel and human, but very expressive. Then he immediately extricated himself from the completely terrible conversation going on in Prowl's office. 

Prowl began clearing some time in his schedule. He had left flexibility intentionally for just such necessary detours from his expected tasks. 

"Mech," Jazz said, leaning back on his chair like the human sparklings did, so it rocked precariously on two legs. "Maybe you're right. You're _probably_ right, even. Seven more overloads a week would put anyone in a better mood. But there's no bot in the world who wants his officer telling him he has to do **anything** about his interfacin' habits." 

Prowl eyed that chair. Even if Jazz didn't fall (which he wouldn't, of course), Prowl judged that there was a strong chance that making a habit out of this behaviour would stress the chair to breaking—they were designed to be on four legs, not two. 

He said nothing about it, puzzling over what Jazz had actually said. When the chair broke, Jazz would probably learn not to play with it. 

Jazz had been the one who brought the problem to command, allegedly suspecting that there was some circuitry problem with Huffer that created undesirable personality elements. Prowl thought it more likely that Jazz had experienced some kind of interpersonal conflict with Huffer (as one tended to, eventually), and had taken his "concern" to command only to inconvenience their cranky engineer. 

It would explain the 3-astrosecond pause upon receiving Ratchet's assessment—that Huffer's temperament _was_ at least partially due to difficulty coping with wartime stress, and would be alleviated by having any kind of pleasure circuitry activated more regularly. 

But there wasn't a lot of entertainment to be had, with the Decepticons ever more active. 

"It's a logically sound suggestion," said Prowl, frowning after Ratchet's bulky frame. "That's what interfacing is for." That, and building social bonds with other Autobots. 

"It sure is," Jazz agreed. "Pit of a thing to order a bot to do, isn't it?" 

Prowl's face rearranged itself into a deeper frown. Was it? They told their soldiers when to take personal time, when to refuel, when to check in with the medics, when to sleep—freedom may have been the right of all sentient beings, but the Autobots were still running an army. 

Prowl felt as though there was some piece of information he had not been given, and which both Jazz and Ratchet knew. But Jazz was a cypher, and Ratchet had left, and his own internal predictions said that offering Huffer a daily overload would prevent many future disciplinary events—which was time he could budget for more significant problems. Like, for example, Megatron. 

"Maybe if _you_ were offering," Jazz added, tilting his head and swaying dangerously on his chair legs. His visor flickered. Winking. Another human gesture. Prowl understood it better than the chair-rocking or the snorting vents. It meant—a joke, or a secret, or some kind of affection. 

Prowl hummed, a deep resonant noise from the engine beneath his own laser core. 

He had intended to offer, if no other partner was available. It was not reasonable to demand that Huffer should take a specific course of action without ensuring it was relatively open to him. The improvement in morale might even be worth the time spent on it. 

"You really gonna go tell him he has to overload more?" Jazz wondered. The chair thumped back, four legs on the floor, and he propped his chin in his hands, leaning in toward Prowl with his visor bright. 

"Yes," said Prowl, after some further deliberation. 

"Just... like that?" 

"...Yes, Jazz." 

The worst outcome suggested by his strategy module was that Huffer would say no. It would be rude. Perhaps briefly humiliating. Not more humiliating than allowing a human to remotely control his entire frame, of course. Chip Chase was a perfectly tolerable alien, but not much was as humiliating as that. 

Prowl had not assigned a value to his own personal dignity at all after that series of events. The dissonance it caused made his processor throb. 

"Alright," said Jazz, voice mild in a way that once again made Prowl's processor flip itself trying to figure out what he was missing. "You just, ah, let me know how that goes." 

Prowl didn't know what problem Jazz was anticipating. And he never really found out. 

Instead, he approached Huffer in the general mess, where Gears and Cliffjumper (whose seemed even redder against the orange paint inside the Arc) were sitting around a table with him. 

Also Sideswipe (equally red, and not particularly stealthy, no matter what he thought) who was supposed to be cleaning up the graffiti in the wash racks and who fled when Prowl darkened the doorway. Hmm. He filed that away for later. 

For now— 

"Huffer. The medical scans Ratchet took earlier suggest that your pleasure circuitry is underutilised," he said without any preamble whatsoever, causing the whole table to fall absolutely silent. 

" _Uh_ ," said Gears. Prowl glanced at him, but he seemed disinclined to elaborate. 

"... That's no surprise," said Huffer, with his usual level of enthusiasm. One might think Prowl had ordered him to attend unanaesthetised tank surgery instead of to overload.

Prowl generally didn't approve of physically muzzling Autobots but in this case, Ironhide's last suggestion wasn't the worst one he'd heard. "What pleasure is there to be had?" 

"Indeed," said Prowl, in the tones of an officer who didn't give a shit and also wanted to forestall further discussion on the topic. "Ratchet has approved a schedule of interfacing as a preliminary treatment. It is likely to improve morale. I expect you to either find a partner, or be in my office by 8:45 PM local time. I have forwarded you a copy of my schedule." 

" _You_?" Gears coughed. "You're—" he looked at Huffer. "Why does _he_ get to— _you_? Really?" 

Prowl shifted. He was perhaps not the most welcoming or friendly bot on the Arc, but he hadn't considered, in his calculation, that Huffer, or Gears, or.. Anyone, really, might be repulsed by... He found himself second-guessing his plan for a moment. But it still made perfectly logical sense. If Huffer wanted another partner, he could find one. 

Cliffjumper was making a noise, but it was mostly static. Some might have called it an improvement on what usually emerged from his vocaliser. Prowl caught something about "door-wings," a vulgar name coined by Sideswipe and popularised by Jazz for the sensory panels that, on Earth, had become the doors of his new alt mode. 

Prowl's patience was almost as infinite as his pragmatism. He elected to ignore whatever it was Cliffjumper was failing to say, on account of it being likely offensive. 

Huffer was staring at him, deep-set blue optics expressing only some deep unhappiness. "It figures... Of course... it's not humiliating enough to be stranded on this backwater... I gotta be the only bot in the whole army who got a pity frag prescribed by the medics," he said. 

Indeed, thought Prowl. 

Huffer had adopted a tone of self-indulgent despair. This was not very different to his normal speaking voice. 

Prowl certainly didn't notice any difference. 

He did notice that Gears kicked him, but he wasn't sure why—he suspected them of engaging in private comms. It was their prerogative, but not polite. 

Nobody seemed to be contributing any further, and so Prowl deemed it appropriate to leave and get back to more immediately productive work. 

"You are free to continue your rest cycle," he said, and then he inclined his head and left. 

"What rest?" muttered Huffer, with exactly the attitude that had caused this whole interaction. "Like I'm gonna rest now?" 

There was another clank, like someone had elbowed him. 

" _Seven_ pity frags," said Cliffjumper, in a tone that he presumably thought was undetectable from where Prowl was marching across the mess. "With _Prowl_." Usually he expected Cliffjumper to be angry and suspicious, and this was not that tone, but Prowl lacked the context for better analysis. 

He heard Huffer make an unhappy cough, deep in his engine. 

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like part of the fun of really fast-written prompt fic is that I don't feel beholden to a particular standard of quality. I can just write whatever. Here it is! Here's "whatever"!!!
> 
> Anyway, despite that, if you enjoyed this please feel free to let me know in a comment. (But you also don't have to leave a comment! That's valid.) Otherwise have a good night.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You Will Never Be Satisfied](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029210) by [crimsonseekers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonseekers/pseuds/crimsonseekers)




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